


who lives, dies, tells your story?

by jack_inaboxx



Series: crack in the glass [9]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: there are others but too many to name directly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_inaboxx/pseuds/jack_inaboxx
Summary: Eternity is a very long time.
Series: crack in the glass [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774129





	who lives, dies, tells your story?

**Author's Note:**

> This is another work I wrote when I was much younger. I've touched it up a little, but it's still outdated.   
> Nevertheless, I'm rather proud of it, and so into the mix it goes. 
> 
> (Note; this is from a time when Alex was a girl called Amara. Amara nowadays is Alex's elder sister. It's... complicated.)

Long bit from something I wrote a few years ago…

_Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?_

_Is it those you leave behind? Those that stay with you forever, long after they’re gone? Those who see something they can’t explain and turn it into a legend?_

_Everybody lives and everybody dies, but who tells your story?_

_I stop wasting time on tears_

_I live another fifty years_

_It’s not enough_

_She tells our story_

Immortality is strange; time becomes fluid, shifting, meaning more some days and less the next moment; memories become archives, notes, lessons learned and treasures to cherish _(and monsters to come back and haunt you and tear at you and hurt you when you least expect it and it hurts the most)_

And you can live three years and it’s too much, a century and it’s too little; other’s lifetimes feel like fleeting, darting things, always slipping away and lost in the swarm of hundreds of thousands of the same, until nothing feels right and you’re afraid to so much as speak to anyone because then you might like them and they’ll be dead and so you tell yourself you don’t care and pretend to not care and it almost works _(except it doesn’t because you can’t stop caring because even though you’ve lost everything over and over you’ll keep finding people that slip past your walls like they’re nothing and you know that’s really all they are)_

And if you’re lucky you can find someone to talk to, to tell everything to, and they remember and make it into a story and they tell it on paper and in songs and with their voices and pictures and words _(and that’s how some of the greatest stories are made but most of the time there’s no one and you have to keep it locked inside yourself where it burns and freezes and blackens you until you don’t know how much you is left)_

_I try to make sense of your thousands of pages of writings_

_You really do write like you’re running out of_

_Time_

_And I’m still not through_

_I ask myself, “What would you do if you had more?”_

_Time_

_She tells my story_

And if you write it helps but then you have to burn it or hide it because nobody can know about this side of you about this curse because it’s dangerous, and nobody understands how awful immortality is and really how could they when all they see is power _(but you don’t because all you see is loss and it never stops and you can never understand why they think it’s something to strive for and die for)_

And then finally, eventually, eternity seems to be coming to a close, and you can feel it, and you know that you need to tell the world your story now, because even if the world isn’t ready, it’s now or never, and you can barely think for the joy of being able to use that phrase with any real meaning again _(but it’s not quite over yet and there’s still time even if it’s running through your fingers like sand you’re not there yet but it’s not far now)_

And it’s then that you think; if I had done this, or hadn’t done that, or did this instead, would things be different? If you had more time, to do what you wanted to, instead of what you were born into, would you be happy? And you think that no, you wouldn’t, because you’d always be haunted by everything you did do, or didn’t do, or might have done instead _(but you’ll still think and wonder what it might have been like if you’d been born someone else but not once will the thought of what comes after cross your mind)_

And if you’re lucky, you can find someone who’ll stay, who’ll be beside you and behind you and always there, to tell people who you were and make sure they remember you _(except they think you’re so much better than you are and do you really want them to remember you as you really are and do you want them to remember a lie and you don’t want either but you don’t know what else to do)_

_You could have done so much more if you only had_

_Time_

_And when my time is up, have I done enough?_

_Will they tell our story?_

_And when my time is up_

_Have I done enough?_

_Will they tell my story?_

And you know that if you kept living you could have done more and you know that, but you know you’ve done everything you can and more and you’ve got nothing left to give, even if you had more time, and you don’t _(but what if you do and what if you could have done more and this will always be there in the back of your mind and you know)_

And then it’s almost over and you still can’t help but wonder if you’ve done everything you could; if this really is your time. But, no, it is; you can feel it. And you’re relieved, because you’ve been waiting for this ever since you woke up the first time you should be dead _(and you know it’s the last time and you’re so tired but there’s a tiny quiet weary voice in the back of your head that wonders is it really time or is this just another failure and you don’t know this time and it scares you)_

And then it’s time and all you see is white and gold and black and greys, and you can’t hear anything, not anymore, and you can’t feel anything, not anymore, and you can’t smell anything, but that doesn’t mean as much because it didn’t smell here anyway _(but you can feel something still and it’s pain and it’s burning like fire in your blood but that’s okay because dying never felt this way before and this time it’s real)_

And you wonder, for that last moment, if they’ll find that notebook, that priceless notebook, and if the words and the story - your story - in it will really make it into the world and, if it does, when it does, will it truly change anything? Or will the war written in blood and ink in it’s pages truly never end? Now you’ll never know but you don’t mind, you’ve done your part _(and you can rest now finally at the end of your journey because even if the blood and ink in the notebook isn’t seen by the world then the sweat and tears will be)_

_Oh, I can’t wait to see you again_

_It’s only a matter of_

_Time_

_Will they tell your story?_

_(Time…)_

_Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?_

_(Time…)_

_Will they tell your story?_

_(Time…)_

_Who lives, who dies_

_Who tells your story?_

And all you can think of now, wherever you are, in this empty white and black and gold and grey, are the ones you left behind, the ones that stayed with you, the ones that whispered the legend they spun out of their own confusion, and wonder if they’re here, somewhere, and if you can find them _(but you’re afraid because what if you aren’t remembering them as they were and what if you’ve changed too much and they don’t recognize you or they do and wish they didn’t because how could anyone like what you’ve become)_

And you know you’ll see them, and you’re afraid, because you know you’ve changed, you know you’re bitter and cynical and tired, and you know you have a long way to climb back up to be even close to worthy of their kindness again, after how far you’ve fallen _(and some small hopeful memory reminds you that they understand and they remember and maybe you’re still worthy of kindness but you remind yourself that memories are monsters that tear and hurt when you left your guard down and not if because you can’t guard against can’t run from what’s in your own head)_

And you wonder, just for a moment, if they’re telling your story _(they are)_

And you think about life, and death, and every thought in your head is spinning and circling and you can’t stop, and you feel like you’re drowning, only you’ve felt that before and the only difference is that you don’t think there’s any water this time _(but you don’t need water to drown)_

And you wonder, just for a minute, if they’re telling your story _(they are)_

And then they’re there, all of them, the ones you left behind, the ones who stayed, and the ones who whisper legends, and you know; you know.

These are the ones who told your story.

_We tell your story. All of us._

_The ones who let you go, the ones that followed you to the ends of the earth, the ones who told the truth to people of something they saw._

_We lived and we died and we told your story; you can rest now._

_Your story is told._


End file.
